He doesn’t say it, but I can hear the accusation plainly:And I don’t see how you could either.
I don’t know how to answer him, so I click the lock button on my car key and start walking toward the house. I issue a firm goodbye, hoping he never comes here again. But he doesn’t move out of my way.
“You’ll be careful, won’t you, Sarah?”
I blink in surprise. “Of what?”
He pointedly doesn’t answer.
“Houses don’t make people crazy,” I repeat, firmer this time. Without meaning to, I put on my “soothing therapist who knows better than you” voice. I even tilt my head so my expensive caramel hair falls over my shoulder like a curtain, closing the conversation. “I know what happened here was a tragedy, but—”
“Sarah.” He cuts me off, staring desperately into my eyes, like he just can’t seem to make me understand. “You don’t know the half of it.”
Behind me a car creeps up the driveway. Joe’s home, thank God. Mr. Whitman frowns at the interruption, then leans forward until his yellowing teeth are an inch from my face.
“If you see or hear anything strange,” he says in a croaky rush, “you know where we are.”
A car door slams behind me, and as soon as I turn to look, Mr. Whitman’s hand shoots out. He squeezes my wrist, his fingers as smooth and cold as a snake’s belly. I gasp, frozen still. “When it happens, we’ll be right down the street,” he says in an aching voice.
Joe calls out behind us, atoms of panic in his voice. But it’s Mr. Whitman I can’t stop staring at. I hate myself for asking, but I can’t seem to help it. “Whenwhathappens?”
He doesn’t answer. I snatch my wrist away, and he lets go, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking up at the house once again.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I say firmly, rubbing my wrist. “Look, I think you need to—”
“The others thought that too,” he says quietly.
“What others?” I finally snap.
Joe’s soft footsteps crunch up the driveway, and I want to yell at him to hurry up and help me. The sound distracts Mr. Whitman, who finally takes his eyes from the house and looks over my shoulder.
“Is something wrong?” Joe strides forward, eyes wide and scared, anxiety splashed all over his face.
Mr. Whitman stares almost sadly at my husband. “You shouldn’t have bought the house, son. It doesn’t want to be fixed, and it doesn’t want you here.”
Before he backs away, he says something under his breath so that Joe doesn’t hear. But I do. His words ring warning bells in my stomach, and I swallow hard, ignoring Joe when he asks uncertainly if I’m okay.
No, I’m not okay.
Because all I can hear is the last thing Mr. Whitman said.
You shouldn’t have bought the house, son. It doesn’t want to be fixed, and it doesn’t want you here.
And it’s going to make you pay.
Chapter 7
I slump onto the couch and stare blankly out the one lone window. We haven’t cleaned it yet, and it’s just a blurred mess of moss and forty years of grime. Outside, the sky is graveyard gray, and everything looks dry and soulless. Dead.
A flock of galahs scuttle in the bushes, their fragile cries sounding eerily human. I cover my face with my hands and breathe through the cracks between my cold fingers.
It’s going to make you pay.
The front door bursts open, letting in a terrific gust of icy air that sneaks under my jacket and makes me shiver. I don’t even mind. The wind is clean and burning andalive.Maybe if we leave the door open long enough, it will finally soak through all this sadness. Maybe it will make it clean again.
I wrap my arms around myself, trembling. Joe slams the door shut and steps forward until he’s hovering behind me. I hate when he does that.
“Mr. Whitman’s gone,” Joe finally says. “I…I told him not to come back for a while.”
